


if you're gonna play the game, boy, you gotta learn to play it right

by tigriswolf



Series: comment_fic drabbles [46]
Category: Inception (2010), RED - Fandom, White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Crossover, F/M, Family, Gen, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:54:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They aren't biological brothers or Frank's sons, but he saved them both when they were small and the three of them somehow became a family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title: if you're gonna play the game, boy, you gotta learn to play it right  
> Fandom: RED/Inception/White Collar (a smidge of James Bond)  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Kenny Rogers  
> Warnings: mostly pre all three fandoms; spoilers for each, though; mentions of child abuse  
> Pairings: Arthur/Eames; some implied Peter/Neal  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 1550  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Inception/White Collar/Red, Arthur + Neal + Frank, They aren't biological brothers or Frank's sons, but he saved them both when they were small and the three of them somehow became a family.

He found Arthur first, in a small town in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. Kid wasn't Arthur yet, of course; he was nameless, bleeding and bruised, and glaring up at a man three times his size, an itty-bitty blade clutched in broken fingers.

He had a dangerous air about him even then, feral and vicious. Frank almost didn't step in, just to see how far the kid could push himself.

But the guy wasn't backing away, and the boy was swaying in place, blinking furiously. He'd been dosed with something.

Frank stepped in and put down the bastard with one punch. Didn't check to see if he'd be getting up; didn't care, either.

"You okay, kid?" he asked, gentle and firm, without making a move toward the boy.

"Fine," the kid slurred, backing up a step and almost going down, but his grip on the pocketknife didn't waver.

When he collapsed, it was sudden and he went straight down. Frank caught him on the way, plucking the knife from his fingers. He gave the boy a quick once-over, to see the worst of his wounds. Thankfully, it was just bruises and some old cuts that had opened up, so he picked the kid up and carried him to his car.

He'd let Joe have the fucker they'd tracked to Bumfuck.

0o0

The kid didn't trust Frank for a long time. He didn't give Frank a name to call him, so Frank stuck to _Kiddo_ or _you_. Five months in, after coming home with a stolen copy of _The Once and Future King_ , he said, "I'm Arthur."

Frank held out a hand. "Nice t'meet ya, kid," he said. "Now, from the top."

Arthur nodded and went through the stretches Frank had taught him. They'd begin with guns the next week. Kid was getting good. One day, he might even be able to take Frank down.

0o0

Arthur found the boy who'd name himself Neal. Frank'd had him for almost six years at that point. Neal was flashier than Arthur, displayed his rapier wit far more often. He babbled on about everything, doing it with such charm that Frank rarely told him to shut his piehole and let them have silence for just a moment.

Neal's arm was broken and he'd pissed off half a dozen bruisers: something to do with cards and the counting thereof. Frank was out scouting the lay of the land, for a quick takedown of some scumbag. He only heard about how Arthur and Neal met secondhand, and neither of them told it the same way.

According to Arthur, he saved Neal's ass. Neal grumbled that Arthur had stepped in where he wasn't needed and applied too much force to a few bar patrons well into their liquor.

Either way, Neal stuck to Arthur like glue for the longest time. Arthur was slightly older, though none of them knew by how much, and he looked after Neal like a brother.

0o0

Neal never was as good as Arthur with guns or martial arts, but he was partial to knives. His talents lay elsewhere: he could charm men and women and inanimate objects, and he could paint like he'd been born with a brush in his hand. He was smart; both boys were razor sharp, though Arthur was better with hard facts and science and math. Neal picked up languages and history and philosophy with the same ease Arthur could reel off formulas and equations.

If they'd been one person, they would make an operative Frank would hop continents to avoid.

As it was, he couldn't be prouder.

0o0

Neal left in the spring, ten years after Arthur saved his ass. He promised to be careful and Frank pretended he didn't know what the kid was heading off to do.

Arthur watched Neal go with resignation. Then he looked at Frank with something approaching apprehension and said quietly, "I'm going to enlist tomorrow."

Frank nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "You do that, kid." He put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, squeezed firmly and gently. "You'll be runnin' the joint in a couple years."

0o0

Arthur fell off the grid in a way that told Frank he was in black-ops. Frank retired the spring after his boys left and followed Neal's career with interest.

He almost stepped in when Neal got arrested and sentenced to four years. He attended every court session, planned a dozen different ops to save the kid. But when the verdict was read out, Neal met his eyes and shook his head.

So Frank let him go.

He knew Arthur couldn't be there (he'd looked around carefully every day anyway, though) and when he saw his first kid glaring at the judge and jury in equal measure, hands and jaw clenched, his mouth actually dropped open.

Arthur had to be AWOL, and from the fury scorching the air around him, he was about to do something beyond stupid. So Frank slipped through the crowd and grabbed his arm, muttered, "Not here, kid," and pulled him out of the courthouse.

Arthur waited until they were in Frank's hotel room to let loose. Frank made sure neither of them were put out of commission, but otherwise gave the kid free rein. Arthur cussed in four different languages, used a couple moves Frank'd never seen before, and called Neal every name under the sun and then some.

Finally, he stood in a loose parade rest and breathed deeply.

"Kid made his choices, Arthur," Frank said quietly. "He didn't want to break out."

"He respects the fed," Arthur snapped. "That's the only reason why."

Frank shrugged. "Let him serve his time," he said. "He won't learn anything, but he'll survive, get out, and put it behind him."

Closing his eyes, clenching his fists, gritting his teeth, Arthur nodded. Another deep breath, relaxing his muscles, and then Arthur said, "I should get back before I'm missed."

Frank pulled him in for a quick, manly hug. "Lookin' good, kid."

Arthur chuckled. "You too, old man."

They left New York at the same time, going in different directions. Neal received two letters his first week in prison, and charmed his way into protection. (He used Frank's training four times, and after that, he was mostly left alone. Thankfully, it was minimum security and no one really wanted to push the issue. He had two dozen escape plans plotted in his head, and Arthur offered to help any way he needed. Frank called him a stupid kid, but said if Neal ever changed his mind, he knew the code.)

0o0  
Three years into Neal's sentence, Arthur fell off the grid in a way that meant he'd left the right side of the law. Frank wondered about his method in raising kids, if one was a thief and the other went rogue.

Frank researched everything to do with Project Somnus, then Dominic and Mallorie Cobb. He ripped into Arthur when the kid finally called him, nearly two months after he fled the goddamned country with a fucking fugitive in his back pocket.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded, trying not to slam his phone into the wall.

"He's my friend," Arthur said quietly, sounding weary and tired. "He's falling apart, Frank. He didn't kill Mal, but she did such a good job…" He sighed. "Please, don't give me a hard time about this. And tell Neal not to break out just to follow me. He's almost done."

Frank bit back three different retorts, took a deep breath, and said, "You get in over your head at all, _let me know_. Hear me? Don't do anything reckless or stupid."

"Okay." Arthur sighed again, an exhale that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "Watch your back, Frank. I heard some things, before—well, I heard some things. If anything happens, you need help, call me, okay?"

"Yeah, kid," Frank said.

"Dom's out of the shower," Arthur said quietly. "I'll… I'll call you later."

Frank didn't hear from him for over two years. By that time, Neal was working for the FBI and Frank himself had gone rogue because a scumbag was using the CIA as his personal hit squad.

It was an adventurous couple years.

0o0

Arthur arrived first, a sketchy Brit with him. Frank hadn't used his New York safe house in almost a decade, but it was barely in Neal's bounds, so he thought he'd hide out there for a little while and send his kid some hints, just to see if he'd kept up with his code-breaking.

Eames took great pleasure in quizzing Frank about his career. He knew things that were so classified Frank barely remembered them and he moved like one of M's boys. Victoria would love him.

Arthur stretched out on Frank's couch and watched Eames with a fond smile. For that alone, Frank liked the smartass bastard.

Neal showed up five hours after Arthur and said, "Frank, you know I'm bugged, right?"

Frank shrugged. "I'm retired, kid. What do I care?"

Neal laughed, hugged Frank and then Arthur, and started flirting with Eames.

Frank took them all three out to a fancy restaurant and told embarrassing stories and was so proud he felt like he'd burst.

Not even Neal's fed trying to ambush him the next morning could dim the glow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur claims that he's older, though they're about the same size and look the same age. Neal laughs and calls him old man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: if you're gonna play the game, boy, you gotta learn to play it right  
> Fandom: RED/White Collar/Inception  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Kenny Rogers  
> Warnings: implied child abuse; post-films; takes place after season 2 for White Collar  
> Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Neal/Peter  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 665  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: White Collar/Inception, Neal and Arthur as fraternal twins, how they chose and honor their birthday

Arthur claims that he's older, though they're about the same size and look the same age. Neal laughs and calls him old man.

0o0

It takes awhile before Neal warms up to Frank. He shies away when Frank comes up behind him, and he censors himself whenever Frank is present.

He adores Arthur, though. Tries to copy him in everything, until about a month after the bar fight, when Arthur sits him down and tells him, "You're not my clone, Neal. Be yourself. Frank won't throw you out, and I won't leave you."

Neal nods. The next day, he sits down across from Frank and tells him the dirtiest joke Frank has ever heard. From then on, he lets Frank see him shine, just as much as Arthur.

0o0

Frank and Arthur consider his birthday to be the day Frank found him. Neal says, "I've been using the day I finally left the home, but I'd—" He cuts himself off, looking down.

"You'd what, kid?" Frank asks.

Arthur smiles like he knows.

"The day Arthur stepped in where he wasn't needed and applied too much force to a few bar patrons well into their liquor," Neal mutters. "Can that be my birthday?"

"Yeah," Frank says gruffly, blinking back tears.

0o0

After Neal runs off to be a criminal and Arthur joins the army, they send each other messages on their birthdays. Postcards or untraceable (for anyone else) emails or actual handwritten letters, in a code no one else can break.

The four years Neal is in prison, he receives a major care package two days a year – his birthday and Arthur's.

When Arthur is at a safe-house, recovering from a nearly-fatal injury, his dad shows up on his birthday and says, "Neal wanted to come. I wouldn't let him."

Neal's present that year is a sketch of the bar fight that introduced them, with Neal small and bloody, and Arthur looking like a superhero. He smiles, and he laughs, and he bursts into tears, turning to Frank. Frank pulls him into a hug, and holds him, and whispers, "Hey, kid, he'll be free soon."

0o0

Eames says, "So, when's your birthday, Arthur?"

Arthur replies, "That's classified, Mr. Eames." He flicks his gaze up from his notes and says, "Yours is the fourth of July, though."

Eames laughs.

0o0

A week before Neal's birthday, Arthur takes Eames to meet Frank, at the only safehouse within Neal's range.

Eames knows who Frank is, of course, and Neal. He didn't realize they were Arthur's family, though.

"My father, Frank Moses," Arthur says, smiling. "My brother, Neal Caffrey."

Eames asks Frank questions he's always wondered about, and flirts back when Neal flirts with him, and tries to embarrass Arthur whenever possible.

On Thursday, their eighth day in New York, Arthur vanishes for nine hours. Eames doesn't panic until lunch time, but when he calls Frank, Frank says, "Calm down, Mr. Thief. It's Neal's birthday."

"And that means Arthur can just run off and terrify his man?" Eames demands.

Frank laughs. "It means they haven't been together for a birthday in a decade. Give 'em the day."

Eames sulks, but he quits leaving Arthur nasty voicemails.

0o0

"The FBI owns me for another year," Neal says. "And I want… I want to stick it out." He buries his face in Arthur's chest, sighing when Arthur's arms come up around him. "Peter and El are so perfect, but I can't help wanting…"

"Oh, Neal," Arthur murmurs.

"Yeah." Neal chuckles bitterly. Arthur shifts, supporting more of his weight, and listens as Neal finally says what he's been thinking for ever eight years.

Finally, when Neal's all cried out, Arthur tells him, "You can come with me and Eames."

"No," Neal replies. "I can't."

0o0

Peter asks Neal, "When's your birthday?"

Eames says, "Arthur, will you finally tell me your birthday?"

Arthur writes a letter and Neal sketches a drawing, and Frank lifts his beer in a toast, murmuring, "Boys, I'm so glad I know you, you clever little snots."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After meeting the brother and dad, Peter has trouble reconciling them with Neal. Arthur is so sharp, and Frank so obviously dangerous... Neal doesn't fit with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: if you're gonna play the game, boy, you gotta learn to play it  
> Fandom: White Collar/RED/Inception  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Kenny Rogers  
> Warnings: AU for White Collar; mentions of violence  
> Pairings: almost Peter/Neal, mentions of Arthur/Eames, Peter/Elizabeth  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 660  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Any, any, his/her lover tries to forget that he/she is a killer but ultimately can't

After meeting the brother and dad, Peter has trouble reconciling them with Neal. Arthur is so sharp, and Frank so obviously _dangerous_... Neal doesn't fit with them.

Elizabeth just looks at him, when he mentions it, and says, "Do you _really_ not see it?"

He shrugs and she sighs. "Don't worry about it, Peter," she murmurs, sitting down in his lap. "Is it really that important?"

Peter lets himself be distracted for the moment, but he constantly goes back to it in his mind, worrying over it. Neal is a white collar criminal. They don't use violence. Neal's a conman, a forger, and a thief. He doesn't hurt people (not physically, anyway).

But the way Neal uses a gun… why would he learn that? He doesn't even _like_ guns. ("Arthur's the gunman," Neal laughs, at the shooting range with Peter, a month after Frank Moses visits. Neal grins, reloading, and hits the bull's-eye as he says, "I've always liked knives.")

Peter doesn't want to believe that Neal has killed people. Peter himself has only done it three times, and even though they were bad men, he regrets each of them. He's read the information the FBI has on Frank Moses, and an operative named Arthur Lafferty, the only Arthur in all the agencies he can find who might be the Arthur that is Neal's brother. Arthur Lafferty died, though, eight years ago.

Frank Moses was the best the CIA had. Arthur Lafferty was almost as good. And if Neal is their son, their brother…

"Quit obsessing about this, Peter," El tells him. "Neal's started to notice."

But Peter can't. He almost asks a dozen times, and as the weeks pass, Neal starts withdrawing. He's as good a CI as ever, and he's perfectly charming, but he declines invitations to dinner, he turns down a visit to the Met, and he gives messages to Jones or Diana instead of telling Peter himself.

And then his sentence is up and the anklet comes off. The very next day, while he's visiting Elizabeth at work (Peter wants to believe he's _not_ saying goodbye), a man busts in waving a gun and demanding all their cash and valuables. The tox screen comes back positive for half a dozen things, but what Peter focuses on (after he calms down enough, and has held El for long enough) is the knife through the man's palm, and the shoulder, and the cleanly broken leg.

Neal's not sorry at all. Peter's thankful, and he would've shot anyone waving a gun like that around El. But Neal didn't hesitate. And where the hell was he keeping _two_ knives?

His father and brother are both killers. His brother's lover is a killer.

Peter finally can't help it anymore. He goes to Neal's loft and he can't look Neal in the eye as he asks, "Have you ever killed someone, Neal?"

Neal reaches out and gently raises Peter's chin until their eyes meet. "Do you want me to lie?"

Peter shakes his head. Neal nods and lets his hand fall. "Yes, Peter," he says.

"Did… did they deserve it?" Peter asks softly, and oh, how he wishes they did, whoever they were.

"I thought so," Neal says. "Whether they agreed, well… that doesn't really matter, does it?"

"Neal," Peter groans, and he brings a hand up to grip Neal's wrist. "Did – have you – murder?"

Neal smiles his beautiful, conman smile. "I'll fill in the blanks there," he says, sounding carefree. "Yes, Peter. There is no evidence, and never will be. And I'll be leaving soon enough, anyway."

"You'll what?" Peter demands, his grip tightening.

Neal pats his hand and gently detaches his wrist. "I've been here too long," he says. "I love New York." A nearly unnoticeable pause, and then, "I love you. But I can't stay here anymore." He steps back. "Go home, Peter. Hold your wife. Don't worry about me."

The door closes in Peter's face.

The next morning, Neal is gone.


End file.
